


The Fact of a 221B Doorframe: A Collection of Sherlock-Related Poems

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6521431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Famous poems redone in Sherlock themes.<br/>(This will expand in the future, so I am creating a separate area to gather them all)<br/>Billy Collins, William Carlos Williams, William Shakespeare, Stevie Smith, Adrienne Rich</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To a Stranger from Another Fandom, Perhaps in Some Distant Country, Reading at This Very Moment

**Author's Note:**

> This is my version of Billy Collins’s poem “To a Stranger Born in Some Distant Country Hundreds of Years from Now” (his first… then my version.)  
> And if you haven't read Billy Collins, or think poetry inaccessible, go pick up one of his books ASAP.

“To a Stranger Born in Some Distant Country Hundreds of Years from Now”

“I write poems for a stranger who will be born in some distant country hundreds of years from now.” -Mary Oliver

Nobody here likes a wet dog.

No one wants anything to do with a dog

that is wet from being out in the rain

or retrieving a stick from a lake.

Look how she wanders around the crowded pub tonight

going from one person to another

hoping for a pat on the head, a rub behind the ears,

something that could be given with one hand

without even wrinkling the conversation.

But everyone pushes her away,

some with a knee, others with the sole of a boot.

Even the children, who don’t realize she is wet

until they go to pet her,

push her away

then wipe their hands on their clothes.

And whenever she heads toward me,

I show her my palm, and she turns aside.

O stranger of the future!

O inconceivable being!

whatever the shape of your house,

however you scoot from place to place,

no matter how strange and colorless the clothes you may wear,

I bet nobody there likes a wet dog either,

I bet everybody in your pub,

even the children, pushes her away.

————————————————————————————————————————————————-

“To a Stranger from Another Fandom, Perhaps in Some Distant Country, Reading at This Very Moment”

Nobody here likes Anderson.

No one wants anything to do with a forensic investigator

who is incapable of drawing correct conclusions

or accurate observations.

Look how he wanders around the crime scene tonight

going from one detective to another

hoping for a pat on the back, a nod of the head,

something that could be given with one hand

without even wrinkling the conversation.

But everyone pushes him away,

some with a closing door, others with a turn of the head.

Even the minor characters, who don’t realize he lowers the IQ of the entire street

until they go to talk to him,

push him away

then shake their heads in disgust.

And if he would head towards me,

I would show him the back of my hand, and he would turn aside.

O stranger who does not watch Sherlock!

O inconceivable being!

Whatever the theme of your fandom,

however you regenerate from season to season,

no matter how medieval or flannel the clothes you may wear,

I bet nobody there likes Anderson either.

I bet everybody on your show,

even the minor characters, push him away.


	2. This Is Just To Say Stay The Hell Away From My Plums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My version of "This Is Just To Say", by William Carlos Williams  
> Poor John. Sherlock and Mary keep taking his stuff.  
> As always...the original, followed by my version.

This Is Just To Say  
By William Carlos Williams

 

I have eaten  
the plums  
that were in  
the icebox

and which  
you were probably  
saving  
for breakfast

Forgive me  
they were delicious  
so sweet  
and so cold

**************

This Is Just To Say Stay The Hell Away From My Plums!

 

i.

I have eaten  
the plums  
that were in  
the fridge  
next to  
the severed head

and which  
you were probably  
saving  
along with  
the leftover Chinese  
for lunch

Please  
forgive me  
they were delicious  
so sweet  
and so cold

If you  
refuse

I will wait  
alone

until you think  
you are  
about to die  
in a fiery  
train car explosion  
to ask  
again

 

ii. 

If you  
should discover  
your plums  
gone

My belly  
swollen  
from your fruit

I will wait  
alone

until you say  
the problem  
of my past  
plum theft  
is my business

 But it is  
your privilege  
to ensure  
I never  
do so  
again

 The cold   
the sweetness  
 so much  
like revenge


	3. Sonnet 221B ( When in disgrace, I look upon Ben's eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. This is embarrassing as hell. But hey, a love poem to Ben in Iambic pentameter is worth a post. Sonnet 29.  
> Kind of a love poem to all under-appreciated artists, actually. Some people suck. You don't.

Sonnet 29  
William Shakespeare

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sing hymns at heaven’s gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

 

***********

 

Sonnet 221B

When in disgrace, I look upon Ben’s eyes,

I’m not alone inside my outcast state,

I’ll trouble not the heavens with my cries,

For in times past, he too has shared this fate,

Yes, I am like to one now filled with hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

For those blind to his art, and to his scope,

“Horse-faced, arse-named,” did think this man as least;

So in these thoughts myself close to despising,

Haply I think on him, and then my state,

To mine self true, I need no compromising,

From life’s banquet, I’ll fill again my plate,

For thy sweet face remembered, such joy brings

A fool’s opinion matters not to kings.


	4. Not Celebrating but Grieving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stevie Smith, "Not Waving But Drowning"  
> Sherlock at the wedding reception.

Not Waving but Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,  
But still he lay moaning:  
I was much further out than you thought  
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking  
And now he's dead  
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,  
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always  
(Still the dead one lay moaning)  
I was much too far out all my life  
And not waving but drowning.

\----------

Not Celebrating but Grieving

 

They listened but no one heard it, the floating melody,  
But still the notes filled the reception hall:  
I was much further in than I thought  
And not celebrating, but grieving.

That one, he always loved solitude  
A life lived in his head.  
He's always far too cold his heart holds no sway,  
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always  
(Wrap a coat against the chill)  
I was much too far in all my life  
And not celebrating but grieving.


	5. A Dream Within A Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A Dream Within a Dream"  
> Edgar Allen Poe
> 
> Tarmack Scene.

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!  
And, in parting from you now,  
Thus much let me avow--  
You are not wrong, who deem  
That my days have been a dream;  
Yet if hope has flown away  
In a night, or in a day,  
In a vision, or in none,  
Is it therefore the less gone?  
All that we see or seem  
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar  
Of a surf-tormented shore,  
And I hold within my hand  
Grains of the golden sand--  
How few! yet how they creep  
Through my fingers to the deep,  
While I weep--while I weep!  
O God! can I not grasp  
Them with a tighter clasp?  
O God! can I not save  
One from the pitiless wave?  
Is all that we see or seem  
But a dream within a dream?

 

\----------  
A Dream Within A Dream

 

Take my hand, please this allow,  
And, in parting from you now,  
Know this much did I avow--  
You are wrong to deem  
The Game as over, tho it seem  
As hope has, with me, flown away.  
In a night, or in a day,  
Vision of you shall I have none.  
Is it therefore that I've gone  
And all that's left to see or seem   
Is but a dream within a dream?

I sit, amid the engine's roar  
I'm off to some tormented shore,  
And I hold within my hand  
What's left of us, like grains of sand--  
How few! yet how they creep  
Through my fingers, none to keep  
While I sleep-- while I sleep!  
O God! can I not grasp  
Them with a tighter clasp?  
O God! can I not even save  
Myself from my looming grave?  
Is all of you I'll see, it seems  
But a dream within more dreams?


	6. Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on Adreinne Rich's poem "Rape". As the title implies, it isn't exactly easy reading, but it isn't especially graphic, in my opinion.
> 
> The deleted hospital scene.

"Rape" by Adrienne Rich

 

There is a cop who is both prowler and father:  
he comes from your block, grew up with your brothers,  
had certain ideals.  
You hardly know him in his boots and silver badge,  
on horseback, one hand touching his gun.

You hardly know him but you have to get to know him:  
he has access to machinery that could kill you.  
He and his stallion clop like warlords among the trash,  
his ideals stand in the air, a frozen cloud  
from between his unsmiling lips.

And so, when the time comes, you have to turn to him,  
the maniac’s sperm still greasing your thighs,  
your mind whirling like crazy. You have to confess  
to him, you are guilty of the crime  
of having been forced.

And you see his blue eyes, the blue eyes of all the family  
whom you used to know, grow narrow and glisten,  
his hand types out the details  
and he wants them all  
but the hysteria in your voice pleases him best.

You hardly know him but now he thinks he knows you:  
he has taken down your worst moment  
on a machine and filed it in a file.  
He knows, or thinks he knows, how much you imagined;  
he knows, or thinks he knows, what you secretly wanted.

He has access to machinery that could get you put away;  
and if, in the sickening light of the precinct,  
and if, in the sickening light of the precinct,  
your details sound like a portrait of your confessor,  
will you swallow, will you deny them, will you lie your way home?

 

****

 

"Visit"

 

There is one who is both businessman and criminal:  
he comes from your stock, grew up with your brothers,  
has certain ideals.  
You hardly know him, with his accent and silver glasses,  
bedside, one hand touching your own.

You hardly know him but you have to get to know him:  
he has access to equipment (here, there) that could kill you.  
He and his empire, a warlord among the trash,  
his ideals hover in the air, a frozen moment  
a near press of his smiling lips.

And so, when the time comes, you can not turn from him  
the dampness of his touch still lingering on your hand,  
your mind whirling like crazy. You must not confess  
to him, you are guilty of the crime   
of having been weak.

And you see his blue eyes, the blue eyes of all those  
whom you used to trust, grow narrow and glisten,  
his eyes seek out the details  
And he sees them all  
But the silence of your voice pleases him best

You hardly know him but now he thinks he knows you:  
here in your worst moment  
like a machine, he filed it in a file.  
You know, or think you know, what he imagined;  
You know, or think you know, what he secretly wanted.

He has access to information that could get her put away;  
and if, in the sickening light of the hospital,  
and if, in the sickening light of the hospital,  
your hands are no longer those of the agile conqueror  
will you hide your delicacy, will you deny it, will you lie your way home?


End file.
